


The Cruelest Month

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 14:40:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: Set at the outset of Season 3, Aramis's decision to leave the monastery was not as spontaneous as it may have appeared. An entry to the May Fete des Mousquetaires competition "April Showers Bring May Flowers." Please check out all of the entries posted and take a moment to vote for your favorite.





	The Cruelest Month

**Author's Note:**

> “April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.” ― T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
> 
> Penance: an act of self-abasement, mortification, or devotion performed to show sorrow or repentance for sin. Mortification: the subjection and denial of bodily passions and appetites by abstinence or self-inflicted pain or discomfort or a sense of humiliation and shame caused by something that wounds one's pride or self-respect

It was a scene of carnage as gruesome as any battle. The rains had been constant for three days, leaving the ground a sodden soup of mud and churned earth. There was little left to salvage amidst the devastation. Aramis stood silently under a warming sun, surveying the damage and wondering where to even begin in order to triage what was left of the herb garden.  
The tiny plants were all but buried and the hardier stalks and stems trampled by wind and water. There was no sign of the precious echinacea seedlings Brother Albert had brought back from pilgrimage, and the most of the marigolds were broken, their stalks snapped before the buds had a chance to bloom. Aramis raked a hand through his hair and sighed. He hadn’t really enjoyed being assigned to the garden the first time he’d planted all of this. Having to redo it all seemed punishment enough, but that he’d have to spend the morning on his knees in the mud seemed an unnecessary penance.

But that was why he was here, wasn’t it? Penance. His litany of sins, of things to atone for, was as long and as well known to him as the liturgy of the hours he had prayed each day since his arrival at Douai. Indeed, he made confession daily and in four years his list had only grown longer. The Abbot had told him long ago that each challenge, each obstacle the good Lord saw fit to put in his path was an opportunity to renew his vows and demonstrate his devotion. The Lord indeed blessed him daily for there was not a day that went by where Aramis was not given the chance to again prove himself in need of redemption. 

As Aramis made his way to the potting shed to retrieve the small hoe and shovel he remembered why he had been given duty to the garden in the first place. He had already had full charge of the orphaned children for the better part of the year after Brother Audebert had declared him unsuitable for work in the scriptorium. Aramis had been disappointed about that. He found the manuscripts fascinating and his multiple languages useful in making translations, but his copy skills were lacking and his hand could not adequately master the fine script demanded by Brother Audebert. He had tried for months but the good Brother’s patience had given way as the pile of unsuitable parchments grew. To be fair, Aramis hated the repetition of it all, the narrow confines for accuracy and aesthetics, the ludicrous exercise of writing a dozen of the same birth announcement in an identical hand. They would be going to different nobles in family lines spread all over France, no two would stand side by side again, so what matter the variances from one to the next? He had to write out 100 copies of Luke 17, the paragraphs on duty to God, after that conversation with Brother Audebert. No, the scriptorium was not for him. But his love of reading and study had proven a boon when Brother Benedicti had taken ill with influenza and someone had to take over as tutor to the children. Aramis was an obvious choice, at Brother Audebert’s suggestion of course. 

From tutor to full-time guardian had been a natural step, particularly after the Abbot had caught Aramis playing hide and go seek with the children when he was supposed to be at mid-afternoon prayer. The Abbot in his wisdom had seen fit to fill all of his time with the children, releasing him from all but the major divine offices so that he could devote himself to his small flock. Aramis suspected that the Abbot hoped having charges of his own would instill in him the sense of order and responsibility that Aramis seemed to struggle to achieve within himself, but while the children’s overall demeanor improved, it could not be said their Latin was getting any better. So in the mornings they were back to Brother Benedicti for Latin and catechism which left Aramis time for prayerful contemplation and study in preparation for his hoped for elevation from novice to brother.

A few months into this arrangement as winter was just giving way to spring, the Abbot found Aramis up a tree in the orchard, his cassock hiked up around his waist and a book of St. Francis open on his knee. After Aramis had argued the case that meaningful contemplation of St. Francis required one to be in harmony with flora and fauna, the Abbot decided Aramis was in need of a duty that brought him closer to the natural splendor of God and the miracles of His creation. The next morning, he was assigned to Brother Denys, the Herbalist, and received his first lesson in the proper management of a hoe. That his new duty required the normally fastidious former musketeer to crawl around in mud and manure was seen by the Abbot as another happy opportunity for Aramis to demonstrate his devotion through daily self-abasement. While this order did not practice mortification of the flesh, none of the Brothers had any compunction in relieving Aramis of his dignity any time the opportunity arose. 

That left him here, weeks of careful, tedious, onerous work washed away in a torrential downpour of biblical proportions and Aramis, like Jonah, sent alone into the muddy mouth of the big whale. He had asked for penance and here was God smiling upon him again. Aramis set down the tools and kneeled in the mud. The irony did not escape him, but as usual, guilt at his own shortcomings rose quickly to wipe the smile from his lips. Another voice inside his heart said a morning crawling in the mud was better than what he deserved for the things he had done, the misery he had caused, the deaths he had left in his wake. Each obstacle might be an opportunity to renew his devotion, but it was also a reminder of how deeply he had failed in the first place. Aramis dug his hands into the dirt, struggling to free the tiny plants from their tomb of mud and water, repeating his litany of transgressions as he worked. Adele, Isabelle, Marguerite. Adele, Isabelle, Marguerite. It was God’s grace that granted him his place with the earth and the worms, it was far more than he deserved.

The echinacea truly was lost. No sign of it remained except a few ragged pink petals churned into the mud. Aramis was disappointed. The new herb had held promise for relief from colds and influenza. Brother Albert had been so hopeful when he first arrived back at the monastery, the tiny plants carefully carried by a special box strapped to his donkey. But their hopes were dashed under the onslaught of the unrelenting rain, the delicate plants not hardy enough to withstand the forces unleashed upon it. As Aramis plowed up the row they had occupied in preparation for Brother Denys to find something else to fill the space he could not help but think of Marguerite, another flower that did not live long enough to truly blossom. She had been caught in a game far beyond her capacity, put in play as a sacrificial pawn by Aramis himself. His desire for the family he would never had, his easy way with lust and passion had marked her for death the very night he came to her bed. Perhaps her betrayal of him, of Anne, was in some way her choice, but he had put her in the eye of a storm she could not withstand. No, her death was forever on his soul. Aramis knelt into the mud again, picking out the stones from the row he had just hoed and whispering again a prayer for God’s intercession so that Marguerite would not face eternal damnation for taking her own life, brought on only by the sin of loving him.

Aramis shifted to the next row, hoping the johnny-jump-up had fared better. The bright purple and yellow flowers were a riot of color when they bloomed, an unruly bundle of blossoms that when prepared correctly helped ease a cough and loosen the fluids from the lungs. It was too early yet for them to have flowered, but not all of the stalks were broken. Aramis carefully righted the ones that could be saved, repositioning them in the moist soil in a neat row. Adele had loved the beds of these flowers, claiming the markings made them look like crowds of nobles who had flocked to see her strolling in the Paris gardens. They had tried to make love once in a bed of pansies, but the dirt and bugs were too much for them to last to the moment. They laughed each time they passed the flower bed though, as the Gardners had replaced the plants they had crushed with a bed of peonies that Adele liked to call her secret garden. Peonies, pansies both untamable blooms just like Adele.

Isabelle was lavender. She had often smelled of it when he pressed himself close to her and the scent to this day brought him to a peaceful place where her innocent love for him offered him respite from the burdens his father had placed on him. The long, graceful stalks and the delicate purple flowers were steadfast residents of so many gardens that they were easily overlooked for the more exotic flowers, but Aramis had never lost his love for them. He was pleased to see that the small plants had already taken root. He shifted the mud and dirt away from their bases knowing that the strong plants would thrive in the rich soil. The oils from the plants would help ease the pain of Brother Cadmus’s twisted hands and soothe the Abbot’s all too frequent headaches. 

The chamomile was thriving. No matter that the tiny white petals looked delicate, they withstood the spring rains best of all. Steeped in tea they soothed an anxious mind and chased tension from the body. He worked the earth around them, his face pressed into the soft leaves as memories of Anne came unbidden to his mind. She too was so much stronger than she looked, had protected their son, had served France, had upheld her duty and had withstood the rage of a hurricane to emerge again as undisputed Queen at Louis’s side. Anne was the one secret he had not brought to confession, even to the Abbot whom he trusted in all things. He told himself this was to protect her and their son, but in his heart he knew he could not confess a sin unless he was truly contrite. No matter that he had exiled himself from her presence as the deepest penance, he could not regret having loved her to begin with.

Feverfew, like chamomile, was a small bush of white and yellow flowers, but its petals were broader, the yellow centers raised. Aramis snickered to himself as he reformed the furrows around the rows of the plant. If chamomile was for Anne, then its bastard cousin was Milady de Winter. It would ease headaches if you chewed the dark leaves, but the taste was bitter despite the beauty of the blossom. His thoughts did not dwell much on her. She was a twisted and wounded soul, yet had shown mercy to him in his darkest hour. It troubled him if he thought too much about being in the debt of a murderess who had wreaked so much havoc in the lives of the people he most loved. Aramis crossed himself and prayed again that God would see a path to redemption for her because it was far more than his poor soul could do.

He really had to deal with the marigolds. Typically a strong plant, it seems they just were not prepared for the onslaught of the spring rains. They lay in sad rows like so many fallen soldiers. Aramis had to examine each one to see what could be replanted. If the stalk was intact he could right it and replant it. But if the stems had snapped or the buds were trampled, there was nothing for them. For each one that he could save, another was cast to the compost heap. Such a waste. Just like soldiers, some lived, some died and most for no rhyme or reason other than the whim of a general or the folly of a King. Aramis’s thoughts often turned to soldiers when he worked with the earth. The careful orderly rows were like musketeers at guard duty, the furrows in the earth like the mounds in the garrison cemetery. He still felt the deaths of his twenty fallen comrades even though it was nearly a decade now since Savoy. He had taken to keeping solitary, silent vigil in the small chapel on the night of Easter after having been chastised by the Abbot when he asked about a mass for the dead. He knew it was wrong to hold twenty dead soldiers in his heart instead of contemplating the sacrifice of the son of God on the holiest of days, but if he did not say prayers for their souls, who then would? The vigil in the chapel was supposed to be a devotion to Christ, but the Abbot never asked of what he prayed that night and Aramis never saw fit to tell.

Enough of the marigolds were left that they would be able to replenish their stock of calendula salve which eased burns and irritations of the skin. Aramis thanked God for that small grace. Without a hat, he was a constant victim of sunburn. The Abbot had offered him the indulgence of one of the broad-brimmed rustic hats the monks of the orchard often wore, but he had refused saying they had so few that they were best left to the older brothers. But in truth, Aramis would rather suffer under the sun than to be seen in that hat. There was only so much mortification he was willing to inflict on his own person - and currently, he was drawing the line at hats.

Overall the herbs had weathered the storm the best of all. Parsley, sage, thyme and rosemary were staples in the kitchen and the medicine cabinet. They thrived in rain or sun and even when they looked near to death at the height of a summer heat wave, a splash of water revived them. Their savory flavor could improve even the roughest meal while the delicate flavors enhanced the most meager broth. As Aramis hoed out the furrows between those four stalwart plants his mind drifted to Serge’s magnificent stews and he and his three brothers, as inseparable and indestructible as the plants he now tended, gathered for an evening meal at their table in the garrison courtyard. He smiled as he worked, thinking of the crazy wagers and dares Porthos always embroiled him in, D’Artagnan’s incredulous awakening to Aramis’s nighttime indulgences, Athos’s gritty glare as he forced him to spar on the mornings when he knew his head was still throbbing from last night’s wine. There were so many memories, so many stories. 

It had not taken the Abbot long into Aramis’s residency for him to ban all talk of musketeers from the refectory. While the other brothers relished the tales at supper, the Abbot felt Aramis still lived too much in the world he had left behind. He was assigned verses to recite instead since the Abbot understood he had a need for conversation and seemed to relish the sound of his own voice. Aramis bore this penance as he did all others, with an honest attempt at gratitude. But if expressly banned from discussion at supper, no one had mentioned that musketeers could not be good examples for children learning the lessons of love, honor and duty. Three years into his exile he found an island of joy with his charges, sharing the stories of his brothers with eager and willing listeners. That they sometimes played at soldiering was an unfortunate by-product that Aramis really knew he should put a stop to. But he hadn’t the heart to put the stories to rest and as orphans, the children seemed all the better for the tales of camaraderie, brotherhood and family not made of blood. The Abbott praised his good works and if Aramis choose not to disclose his methods he felt there was no harm to it as long as it all worked out for the best.

So many secrets he still kept. So many rules that he skirted the edges of. Four years here and he still was not settled. He did not think he would be long for the garden duty as Brother Denys was already frustrated with his chattiness. Beekeeping, brewing and kitchen duty had all gone about as successfully as his time in the Scriptorium. The Brothers had begged the Abbot’s indulgence to not allow Aramis near their meal preparations again. Taking charge of the orphans had indeed been a boon to him, but he knew that the war would not go on forever and that his life at the monastery could not be rooted to the children in his charge. Four years and he was no closer to the vows he had hoped to take. Four years and stories of battle from the soldiers who passed through their gates still touched his heart more deeply than the well-read scriptures he buried himself in each day. Aramis knew the most reasonable duty to assign him was to the infirmary, but again the Abbot had made it clear that he would not risk Aramis’s mortal soul by allowing him further connections to the world he was having such trouble setting aside. No, the walls of the monastery would close in tighter and tighter until there was no path left to him but one that would lead ultimately to the redemption he so desperately sought. Aramis’s chest tightened. He was terrified of the monastery becoming his tomb yet was that not exactly what he had agreed to when he stepped within its walls looking for a solace he did not deserve?

Aramis shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He’d lost track of how long he had stood there leaning idly on the hoe remembering his friends, missing his lovers. He wiped an arm across his brow, the morning sun settling hot upon his bare head. There was one last task in the garden - something had to be done about the mint. In truth, he should have pulled it up when Brother Denys had asked him to last week. But it had been hot, and then the rains came, and now it was an infestation threatening to overrun the rest of the herbs. Well there was no way he would allow that like some legion of red guards storming the musketeer garrison. Aramis let loose on the mint, ripping up the stalks with his bare hands and wielding the hoe more like a sword than a farming implement. Oh yes, that mint would not stand through the wrath of a King’s Musketeer!

“Aramis! Aramis!” the sound of his name finally penetrated and Aramis paused, hoe raised above his head for another strike. Three brothers stood on the garden pathway, eyes wide at the what must have been a wild sight of Aramis hacking his way through a field of mint. Aramis lowered the hoe and straightened up, brushing the leaves and stalks from the folds of his robes and giving the brothers a quiet bow in greeting.

“Brother Aramis,” Brother Marcus’s face was aghast, “What is this display?”

“Gardening, Brother,” Aramis replied, stepping out from the wreckage of the mint and joining him on the path.

“That is hardly how Brother Denys accomplishes the task,” the older monk chided.

“We each must work in our own way,” Aramis replied, flashing a charming smile that should have melted the scowl from Brother Marcus’s face. That it didn’t work didn’t diminish it in the least.

“Brother Benedicti has been looking for you,” the brother continued, “The children finished their lessons and ran off to play in the fields outside the walls. They seemed convinced you had given them permission and would not heed his protest.”

“They should not be outside today,” Aramis said, the smile dropping from his face, “The storms interrupted a pitched battle, France and Spain are entrenched not far from here. I heard the canons resume only a few hours ago.”

“Well Brother Benedicti certainly can’t go chasing after them at his age,” Brother Marcus chastised, “Go, fetch your charges.”

“Yes brother,” Aramis said with a small bow. He hefted the shovel and hoe over his shoulder and made his way to return them to the potting shed.

“And don’t run!” the Brother called after him. Aramis was glad his back was to Brother Marcus, so he could not see him roll his eyes, but he nonetheless slowed his hurried step. 

“And be back before the noon bell!” Brother Marcus added.

“Yes, sir,” Aramis replied with a wave, not really thinking that Sir was not the appropriate title at this moment.

“And be careful!” the final admonishment came as he turned the corner of the path. 

“Be careful,” Aramis muttered to himself. He was a former King’s Musketeer sent to retrieve six children playing in a daisy field on a sunny day at the start of a promising spring. What could possibly go wrong?

**Author's Note:**

> Endnote: My knowledge of medicinal herbs is slim, but I know even less about gardening and what could or could not have grown in France in 1630. I’m happy to accept revisions proposed by Master Gardeners and Herbalists alike!


End file.
